It's The Meteors Fault
by SkyKissed
Summary: It's because of the meteor he's laying on the floor with his lieutenant. They'd been diving for their lives. It's not his fault they landed so close to one another. Based off the teaser trailer for the NightFall Episode. Wash/Taylor.


A/N: Wrote this up after seeing the third trailer for Nightfall. Admittedly, that means this will be totally invalid by Monday but…. I regret nothing.

Enjoy this fluffy little number, done in Taylor's perspective. Because Wash can't have all the fangirl love all the time. :D

Written to the tune of "She's Got Sorcery" by I Fight Dragons. Because cutesy 8 bit pop is obviously what you think of when writing stories for a pair of lovelorn BAMF's. -Sarcasm

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><p><strong>NightFall<strong>

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><p>He lands on his stomach with a loud thump directly beside the lieutenant, close enough that their hands are nearly touching. It's enough to take the air out of his lungs momentarily, the windows of the Command center shattering around them, covering them both in a mixture of glass and dust. The noise is deafening and then…nothing. An unnatural silence simply descends upon them, as if Terra Nova is momentarily rendered lifeless.<p>

It is, oddly, Wash's laughter that breaks it.

He can't help but arch a brow at her reaction. His seasoned lieutenant rolls onto her back, her shoulder fetching comfortably against his own, as she shakes with laughter. She'll be amused before frightened any day. It's a coping mechanism, much like her anger, but a charming one.

"Haven't had to do that for a while," she manages. "Hell of a way to start a morning."

He snickers. There had been a time, not so long ago, where Wash had been entirely to proficient at diving for her life. As a medic she ought to have been afforded immunity on the battlefield; she'd been far too skilled for her own good and had half the field gunning for her most of the time. Terra Nova had marked the end of that phase of her life.

Or would have if not for that damn meteor.

Before he can think better of it (and he _does_ the moment he's doing it) he reaches over to pluck a piece of glass from her hair. They're both covered in it. It's an absurd, insane, horrible realization but he can't deny that, covered in dust and lit by the jagged rays of sunlight dancing over her grinning face, her impossibly dark hair dotted with glittering pieces of glass, she's miserably attractive. Her smile falters momentarily as their eyes meet. Not suspicious, not angry, just curious. And perhaps maybe, just maybe, she leans infinitesimally closer to him.

If he's being truthful, a part of him is infatuated with the idea of kissing her, to feel her smile against his lips.

He stamps down on the prospect without pause. It's insane, improper, an abuse of power….

But she's smiling at him again and the idea returns to him with such force his breath is stolen away. Again. For the second time in the last five minutes. Damn, he's getting soft in his old age…he makes a mental note to deal with these…_feelings_, though he's loathe to dub them so, before the end of the day.

Wash nudges him lightly with her shoulder, "You alright, sir?"

"Been better," And hell if he means the meteor and not the damn puzzle that is his head.

They really are to close. Lying on his side and with her face angled towards him they are nearly nose to nose. It's inappropriate. It's wrong. He shouldn't be here, especially not with her. But she's still smiling, her eyes the warmest shade of amber he's ever had the pleasure of seeing, and he just _can't_ feel awful about it. It's the meteors fault. They were taking safety precautions. He can't help the fact that they landed so close to one another.

If he kisses her now, she won't push him away. She's left enough of her guard down to convey that.

God. Damn. Meteor.

Instead, he rises, extending a hand to her as well. If he didn't know her better, he might have fancied there was a flash of disappointment in her eyes. It's gone as quickly as its came, replaced with the more familiar camaraderie they have built their relationship upon. The moment passes and they are back on familiar ground. Wash slips back into her old ways, brushing glass off his shoulders, fussing over him absently.

It's better this way.

Still, as they march side by side out to deal with the havoc in the marketplace (the people have recovered enough to begin panicking) he can't shake the image of her, backed by sunlight, and feels a pang of something dangerously akin to longing.

He wishes he had kissed her.

And he hates himself for that.


End file.
